


Relativity

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester is such a dad, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Future Fic, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:52:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Winchester household, 'normal' is completely relative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relativity

**Author's Note:**

> I've no idea where this came from. Keep in mind, I haven't seen the show since the very beginning of season 6. This is set in an undetermined future where our boys get their happy ending.
> 
> Completely unbeta'd. Let me know if you find any mistakes. (You probably will)

There're fifty seconds left on the clock by the time Mary's phone buzzes with an incoming call. The contact photo is from three or four years ago, and in it her father is puffed to all hell in a red and white coat, bushy white beard and matching eyebrows doing little to hide his fine features. He made a pretty decent Santa, all told, until he got a few too many Budweisers in him and began eating all the food Uncle Sam'd left out for the reindeer. She'd never seen her cousin Jessica cry so hard in her life. It was _awesome_.

She answers it with only a small eye roll, which, hey—that's some amazing personal growth, right there. Dad would be proud. "Hi, Pops. You guys settling in okay?" 

There's a grunt on the other line. **_Fucking flight was delayed like two hours_.**

"I really enjoy how you make that sound like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to you," she says. The microwave dings cheerily in agreement.

**_Apocalypses I can deal with. American Airlines? Not so much. You have any idea how much they charge for a bag of chips? I almost threw a bottle of holy water at the stewardess._**

"In an airline-approved travel sized bottle, I hope." Slipping her hands into the fugly, flowery oven mitts Uncle Sam got Pops as a joke for Christmas last year, she opens the microwave door and carefully navigates the steaming bowl to the countertop. Fingerwaved noodles bob about in boiling water. Aw yeah.

**_Laugh it up, kid. I know where you live_.**

She tosses the mitts into a random drawer—she honestly can't keep track of where things go, especially since Dad keeps moving shit around—and rips open a metallic packet, pouring its contents into the bowl and stirring it with a fork. The water bleeds a deep, satisfying yellow.

"I take it you're all checked in. How's Dad?"

**_Dad's Dad. He just left to go explore, god help us. So, we just got to our rooms, and kid? You did good. How the hell did you even swing this? I_ know _for a fact I'm not paying you this kind of money. Hell,_ I _don't make this kind of money._**

She beams at nothing and discreetly pumps her fist at her side. Glory to the victorious, or whatever. "It's not every day your parents celebrate 20 years together. Or 60 years, I never know with you two. Anyway, it had to be special. I can only give you guys so many gift cards to UNO's before I begin losing cool kid points."

**_Hey, I like UNO's. But seriously, where'd you get this kind of cash? You oughta see this room, baby. It's insane._**

"I saved… and Uncle Sam helped." A lot.

**_Of course he did. Well, I'll get him back later. For now? I'm gonna enjoy the hell out of this._**

It's been a long time in coming. They've done their best by her and god help anyone who ever calls their love for her into question, because she'll murder them in cold blood, but it's pretty obvious her parents aren't built to be parents.

She knows the stories, the things they've seen and done and endured—tales told to her when she was little and names like 'Alistair' and 'Naomi' and 'Lilith' were nothing but monsters hiding lurking under the bed. She knows that people, not even Dr. Harrison at the Observatory her class visited in the third grade, don't stop and look at the sky the way Dad does. None of her friends know what a bowie knife is, or what 'enochian' means. Nobody understands her when she says there is no God, but angels are real. Rachel DeMarco's mom, who leads their neighborhood watch group, doesn't sprinkle her windows with salt or occasionally pull up her carpets to paint devil's traps in blood. Pops has no clue what goes into a packed lunch. Dad has no idea why she needs sunscreen before she goes to Six Flags or the beach. Uncle Sam sort of knows why it's seriously not okay for him "check up on her" and whisper "Christo" when she's going to the movies with a guy.

Mary's not an idiot. She knows why they made the fourteen-hour drive up to Massachusetts all those years ago; why they kept her through countless, colicky nights, and stuck through her rebellious pre-teen years when even _she_ wouldn't have blamed them for sending her back.

She is their one attempt at normal, and goddamn it, she's going to do everything she can to give it to them.

Well, normal to a point. In the Winchester household, normal is relative. She's pretty sure she's the only kid her age who knows how to gank a demon. Speaking of which…

Mary pulls the phone away from her ear really quick to check for any texts. Nothing.

**_Dad bought you a bunch of shit to make wraps and stir-fry. Make sure you eat it, all right? No pizza, no mozzarella sticks, or any of that crap._**

She glances down at her bowl of ramen. "Yup."

**_And if you even think for a second about throwing some kind of party—_**

"Shit," Mary groans. "Guess I'd better return those kegs. Hey Pops, you think Jeff will take back all the meth I bought off him? I think it was final sale. Oh god, and I sent out all those Facebook invites—"

**_You're funny. You're a funny kid. Look, this is the first time we've been away away, and I just want to make sure you're good. Lock the doors when you go to bed, okay? And call Sam if—_**

She brings her bowl—ow, fuck, hot—over to the dining room table and drops into a chair. "Pops, give it up. I'll be fine, okay? I'm seriously just going to be pigging out on cake batter and watching Drew Barrymore movies the entire time, and I _may_ go over to Laney's to go swimming if the weather holds out."

**_You know I don't like that girl. There's something weird about her, but I can't put my finger on it._ **

" _Pops_. It's fine, and the house will still be standing when you get back, I promise."

**_Good. That means I won't have to worry while your dad and I have athletic, bendy, awesome sex all weekend long._**

"OH MY GOD, WHY WOULD YOU EVER. I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT. I can't—that—ugh. You're the worst. That's gotta qualify as child abuse somewhere." Just for that? She's going to go out and bring home the first stray dog she sees.

**_You bring up meth? I bring up sex._**

"Gross," she mutters, and stirs her ramen. The noodles are too soft now. She'll have to dump it out and make another package.

**_There's nothing wrong with your dad and me having sex._**

"Stop saying sex!"

Pops laughs, his low, warm rusty laugh that never fails to make her grin. His real laugh, the one he uses when she tells a particularly funny joke (something usually stolen from Louis CK) or when Uncle Sam calls to complain about Jessica or when Dad mutters something about forty years and a green room (not a clue). Everyone else—the PTO, the autobody guys who work for him, and even Mrs. Hironobu who's like 300 years old—gets the other one. Mary's pretty sure he practiced it in front of a mirror until it was fit for public.

A knock on the door interrupts her thoughts, and she smiles. "So, Dad's been gone a while, huh? He probably discovered the hotel bar serves food."

**_What, like hamburgers? Shit. Baby, I gotta run._**

So predictable.

"You two have"—gross—"fun. Call me tomorrow, okay? Let me know how the shops are. Feel free to bring me back something expensive and useless." She pushes her chair back and starts heading for the front door.

**_Love you, kid. Call if you need anything._**

She won't. "I will. Bye, Pops."

Clicking out of the call, Mary slips her phone into her back pocket and opens the door.

Laney stands just beyond their beat-to-all-hell welcome mat, eyes blacker than night and a put-out expression on her face. "You guys seriously still have this?"

Mary glances down to where the devil's trap is hiding beneath the mat and shrugs. "Step around it. If I break it, Dad'll know and ground me for eternity."

"Your dad's such a buzzkill," Laney mutters, tip-toeing around the mat and stepping inside. "So, I brought _Ever After_ and _Fever Pitch_ , but I'd rather—oh my god, did you make ramen without me? You bitch."

"No one would ever guess you were centuries old," Mary calls after her, shutting the door. "I got some cake mix. We can either make cupcakes or just grab two spoons."

"You know where I stand on that." Two spoons it is. "Are your dads cool with me being here?"

Mary grins. "Yup." They have no idea what lurks beneath Laney's skin, but if Dad has taught her anything it's that you can't judge what's on the inside on anything but merit. "They say hi."

Laney snorts. "If you're gonna go into the family business, you're gonna have to lie better than that. Okay, first things first: you're making me ramen. Then I think we should start with _E.T._ "

"Are we going back that far? I thought we'd start with _Firestarter_."

"We start at the beginning, you fucking heathen," Laney says, disappearing into the kitchen. "Where's the ramen. I need me some sodium."

Standing there for a moment, Mary reaches and places her hand on her pocket where the phone has warmed the material of her jeans. Miles away in picture-perfect Maine, a man and an ex-angel are celebrating a life together, well-earned and _right_. In her kitchen, a demon is tearing apart her cabinets in search of ramen before their Drew Barrymore marathon.

She drops her hand and grins.

Normal is so completely relative.


End file.
